


Mistletoe

by dhampir72



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond (Movies)
Genre: Christmas, F/F, M/M, MI6 Secret Santa, POV Outsider, Secret Santa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-25
Updated: 2017-12-25
Packaged: 2019-02-20 01:04:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,588
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13135917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dhampir72/pseuds/dhampir72
Summary: She sits down at her chair, coffee in one hand, folded paper in the other. She is just taking a sip when she opens the paper...and promptly spits her coffee back into the cup.The paper reads:James BondThat can’t be right. It’s impossible. It has to be.Right?[For the Secret Santa assignment: "the POV of Q-Branch minion who was the unlucky one to be paired with Bond"]





	Mistletoe

**Author's Note:**

> For the MI6 Secret Santa. Not my best work as I'm shite writing original characters, but I did my best. UnBETA'd so please let me know if you spot any glaring errors!

**00Q00Q00Q**

Miriam Matheson is thirty-one years old and about as unassuming as they come: mousy brown hair, brown eyes, and too many freckles for someone her age to be taken seriously. If someone were to see her out at the shops or on the Tube, they might mistake her for a librarian or a schoolteacher with her too-large glasses and one of her over-sized jumpers set over one of her many checked skirts. Miriam doesn't mind this at all, actually thinking it rather laughable that no one suspects her for what she truly is: a member of Her Majesty’s Secret Service.

She may not be a spy (and never will be, what with her flat feet and exercise-induced asthma) but she does have the highest security clearance short of her bosses and her bosses’ bosses. Third-tier security clearance isn’t anything to sniff at, either, because Miriam gets to play with some of the most interesting and dangerous code in the world when only two years previous she had been working at a bank doing grunt work that paid the bills but wasn’t even a half-percent close to as much fun.

Even her parents don’t know the truth, thinking that she works for the Department for Transport doing database maintenance. _A safe job,_ they would say, every time she spoke to them over the phone, _and reliable, stable, with a good pension!_ Miriam always has to hold back a laugh, if only for their sake. They would die if they ever find out the truth.

In fact, the only person who does know is her wife, Andrea, who is allowed to ask her how her days at work went, but not what she did, for reasons of National Security.

“You’re a spy,” she’d singsong as they did the dishes, or played with the cats, or got ready for bed. “A spy, spy, spy, spy, spy!”

“Shh, not too loud. The neighbours might hear, then I’d have to kill them!” Miriam would whisper, which always sent Andrea into giggles.

It’s nice not having to keep such a secret from her, though Miriam does know that it comes at a cost. Andrea never lost sleep over her when she’d worked for the bank, or paced by the door anxiously when Miriam didn’t come home on time. It’s warranted, Miriam knows, because it’s not like MI6 has the best reputation for keeping its members safe, not since the terrorist attack that had blown up their building on the Thames.

Things had gotten better internally--safety protocols, security, etc--but the outside world still remembered that burning blaze, the black smoke against a pale blue sky.

“I’m fine, I’m safe. Don’t worry,” Miriam always tells her.

“I’m always going to worry,” Andrea always says. “That’s my job.”

Miriam knows it’s been a hard year for her, with all the extra hours MI6 has been asking of her, causing more of the worrying than usual. That’s why she’s got a nice surprise for Christmas, already wrapped carefully and hanging like an ornament on the back of the tree in their small flat. So long as the cats don’t get to it first and drag it about the house, Andrea will have no idea that there are two tickets to Spain waiting for her to open on Christmas morning.

That’s the other perk about the job: she makes great money. Enough that her wife doesn’t have to work if she doesn’t want to (though she does, because Andrea loves teaching too much to leave her students) and that Miram can take her on nice holidays out of the country: this one to the south of Spain, where they’ll have a view of the water for seven days and seven nights and all the drinks and massages they could ever want.

“Someone’s cheerful this morning!” remarks Asha, who comes into the break room bearing a plate filled with various sweets to share.

She’s dressed in red, her bindi a matching sparkle on her forehead. Miriam envies how trendy she always looks, though not as much as she envies her phenomenal cooking skills.

“Because I knew you were bringing in treats!” Miriam says, and comes over to look at the offering, helping herself to a few that catch her eye.

“And here I thought it was because the firewalls were so perfect we didn’t need to do testing today!” Asha says, as she heads for the still-hot kettle behind Miriam.

“Now that would be a Christmas miracle.”

Asha’s laughter follows her as she makes her way out to the bullpen. It’s relatively quiet, as it has been for the past few weeks. Most have been able to take their overdue holiday, and have gone off for the last three weeks of the year. Miriam and a handful of others are left behind in TSS, R&D in a similar state. Still, it’s festive. Someone has put up garlands and lights, lending a cheerful atmosphere to their otherwise dull department.

She’s just biting into one of Asha’s delicious biscuits, waiting for her tea to cool, when her boss appears. He’s about her age, maybe a little older, maybe a little younger, it’s hard to say. He’s got one of those faces that can go either way, and a wardrobe to match. Some days he looks like a uni student playing at Quartermaster; other days he looks too grave and haggard to be anything _but_ Quartermaster.

Miriam remembers him looking somewhere between the two on the day they first met.

It had been right after that incident with the old Six--perhaps four months or so--when she’d been headhunted for MI6. She didn’t even know she was walking into an interview, believing instead that she was about to be fired after her boss had asked her, with a rather nervous expression, to report to a conference room. Instead of finding her boss and a representative of HR there to tell her to pack her things, there were two men waiting for her.

The first was middle-aged, with a receding hairline but a warm, open expression, who introduced himself as Tanner. The other was younger, bespectacled, and more reserved; he didn’t even offer a name. Surprisingly, it was he who handled the interview, not starting out with any niceties, but going straight for the technical talk.

They went back and forth about systems and coding processes, her preferences for scripts and languages and the like, before he finally got to what he was there for.

 _You’re responsible for fielding a major hack on your company’s system about two months ago, is that correct?_ he asked, but in a way that seemed more of a statement and not a question.

 _Well, it was a team effort..._ Miriam began, but the man shook his head.

 _I’m a data person. I saw the code. It was your work_ he said.

She hesitated. Never before had someone recognised her talent before. It had always been a team effort, the result of good groupthink, never individual merit.

_I had a lot of support writing the code--_

_But it’s your code. It has your signature._

Miriam blushed and looked down at the table, because she didn’t know what to say. Tanner put his hand on the man’s arm and leaned over to whisper something in his ear. The man softened considerably.

 _You’re not in any trouble, Ms. Matheson,_ he said, and gave her a smile. _I’m rather bad at social etiquette. I should have assured you when you first came in: this isn’t an inquisition._

_Then what is it?_

The man tilted his head.

_A job interview._

_Oh,_ Miriam said, and twisted at her engagement ring, thinking of Andrea to help her calm down. _I, um, I haven’t put in an application anywhere…_

 _You didn’t need to. Your work spoke for itself,_ he said. _I can’t give you much information except this: we represent a certain government agency that has a need of people with your talent. I’m impressed with what I see, and if you are agreeable, I would like to extend an employment offer._

Miriam’s heart pounded in her chest. A government agency had seen her work and had come to offer her a job? They had noticed _her_ out of all of the others in the building, in the city, in the entire country? She was as thrilled as she was terrified.

_But I’ve… I’ve got no real training...I didn’t go to uni or anything…_

The man smiled again, this time a bit mysteriously. She wondered if it was like the movies: that he’d been a black hat hacker and turned good to help protect the country from terrorists. It was very romantic, but also very possible, which increased her exhilaration and terror tenfold.

 _Not many of us have what could be thought of as a traditional education,_ he said, _you would be in very similar company._

_Oh well.. I’m really so, so flattered, but...I can’t...just leave here? I’ve been working here for six years and--_

_You’re wasted here,_ the man said, but then in a rush, _but your decision is yours alone. Know that whatever they’re paying you, we’ll pay you more. And,_ he leaned in across the table, his eyes very green behind his glasses, _you’ll get to have a lot of fun._

The excitement of it--the possibility of doing something new and different and maybe even creative and borderline dangerous--made Miriam Matheson deviate from all ordinary routes that she had always taken.

_I’m interested._

Two years later, and she’d never been happier, working for MI6, and the man who is its Quartermaster, who goes only by the seventeenth letter of the alphabet. Today, he looks almost as young as he did when he’d smiled at her in that interview, when he promised her _fun_ of all things. It’s nice, not seeing him haggard, with a smile that goes all the way to his eyes. He’s even got on a festive cardigan with candy canes embroidered on it. It’s ugly, even for his usual standards.

“Good morning,” he says.

“Good morning,” she says back, and notices that he’s carrying a stocking with him. “What’s that?”

“We’re trying on a new tradition,” Q says, holding it up for her to see.

It’s typical red with white trim, and there are bells on it that jangle merrily with the movement of his hand. On the front, it has been embroidered with the words _Secret Santa_.

“Secret Santa?” Miriam reads, with raised eyebrows.

“R did the embroidery. It’s good, don’t you think?” he asks.

“Yes,” Miram agrees, but then frowns. “I thought you didn’t do Christmas?”

“I know I’m usually more of a Grinch, but this year I’m trying to be better,” Q says, looking apologetic for his previous years of stormy behaviour; warranted seeing as how there had always been some sort of international incident round the holidays every year. “It helps with the terrorists not terrorising. Does wonders for my mood.”

“As it does,” she agreed, and he smiled.

“No pressure to put in, but if you want to, it might be fun. Fifteen quid limit and we exchange gifts at the holiday party on the twenty-second. Giving alcohol is highly encouraged.”

“Okay, you’ve convinced me.”

She laughs, writes her name on a Post-It, and puts it in.

“Excellent. We’ll draw in a few days. Maybe you’ll get something nice for your upcoming trip. Mid-February, yeah?” Q asks.

She can’t believe that, with all of his responsibilities and things to remember, that he recalls when she is going on holiday. Of course, he’s that sort of person, remembering the smallest details: birthdays, childrens’ names, spouses names. She supposes he wouldn’t have the job if he _didn’t_ have a memory for the small details.

“Yes, I am counting down the days.”

“A well-deserved holiday. Does Andrea know yet?”

Again, she’s amazed that he remembers her wife’s name, a woman he has only met in passing twice at a pub night.

“Nope. Debating on Christmas Eve or Christmas morning...I haven’t decided yet.”

“Either way, it’s going to be great. She’ll love it,” Q says.

“Love what?” Rumi asks, from the desk behind Miriam.

She’s just come in for her shift, unzipping her coat and putting her bag down, and Q goes to her with his stocking covered in bells.

“This quest, if you should be so ready to accept it!”

Laughing, Miriam turns round in her chair and goes back to work. She has plenty to do before the end of the year, even more so before her holiday, and she doesn't want to get behind.

**00Q00Q00Q**

She’d honestly forgotten all about the Secret Santa business, but three days later, round midday Miriam is drawn from her work by the sound of R jangling the bells on the stocking to get everyone’s attention.

“Alright, everyone! We’re doing the drawing today,” R says, “so if you put your name in, don’t forget to take a name. Remember the limit is fifteen quid!”

She hangs the stocking just outside of the breakroom, where they are all bound to see it, and takes the first name. R unfolds the paper, reads the name, and puts it into her pocket without her expression changing, telling Miriam that she’s gotten someone she knows just what to gift them.

A few of the others follow suit, standing from their desks to go to the stocking and withdraw their names. Rumi shakes the back of her chair.

“You wanna go?” she asks.

“Sure,” Miriam says, thinking she can freshen up her empty mug of tea while she’s at it.

They walk over together, but instead of standing in the queue, Miriam opts for the breakroom. It’s empty, save for Q: tablet in one hand, one of Asha’s biscuits in the other. Behind him, the kettle is on, percolating.

“Those biscuits are amazing, aren’t they?” Miriam says conversationally.

Q hums, eyes not leaving the screen. Miriam watches him closely.

“Everything okay?”

“Oh, it’s nothing. Bond’s tracker’s gone offline again...probably by his own design but…” Q sounds distracted, worried.

Miriam knows that this is typical Bond behaviour--they all do by now--but still, it always seems to affect Q the same way. She knows he’ll be quiet and jittery until Bond’s tracker comes back online...or the man himself returns to MI6. If she didn’t have a death wish, Miriam would tell Bond off for his actions. After all, the agent must know of Q’s affection for him. Making him worry is just cruelty.

“I’m sure he’s fine,” Miriam says, looking at the tense line of Q’s shoulders.

Q hums again, not even looking up when the kettle has finished. His empty mug is on the counter, so she puts a tea bag in and fills it with water for him, then does the same to her own. After letting it steep, Miriam bins the bags and adds a bit of sugar to Q’s--his sweet tooth is notorious around Six--and then brings him his mug.

“Tea?” she offers, holding the cup out to him.

“Thank you,” he says, still frowning at the screen.

She wonders what to do, because it’s no secret that Q likes Bond in a way that extends beyond the professional. They’re not all so blind that they don’t notice the way Q watches Bond leave on missions: that sad, anxious look that he can’t quite hide. And Miriam has been on one or two all-nighters with Q, listening to Bond shag other women while the Branch stands by in preparation to decrypt whatever computer or flash-drive the target happens to have on them; it’s impossible not to see Q’s heart in his throat as Bond makes love to someone else.

That’s not to say that it’s all hurt for Q when it comes to Bond. There are smiles and laughter that they share, jokes and quips and all sorts of innuendo that only mean something to the two of them. It’s like watching a flower lean towards the sun, begging to bloom, and it’s not just on Q’s side. Bond never smiles or laughs or is even approachable unless it is in Q’s presence. The hard edges of him seem to soften when with their Quartermaster, his gentleness sometimes shocking.

Miriam remembers, a few months ago, when an experiment gone bad in R&D resulted in several stitches for Q, and how, when Bond had found out, how upset he had looked upon seeing the white gauze round the wound on Q’s hand. It had been right when she was leaving for the night, her bag over her shoulder, coat zipped up, that she had seen Bond go to Q and touch his bandaged hand so tenderly, bringing it close to his face as if to inspect the damage, and perhaps--in another life--to kiss it better.

There’s something there, she knows, but what, she’s not sure, and there’s nothing she or anyone else can do about it.

“He’ll be okay,” she says, going so far as to touch Q’s shoulder gently with the tips of her fingers.

They’re not a touchy bunch, but she thinks the situation calls for it. It makes Q look up, at least, and give her a small smile. Gone is that youthful face from a few days ago; he already looks old and tired beyond his years.

She leaves him to his tablet and his tea, walking out of the breakroom. Rumi is just pulling her name out of the stocking.

“Don’t forget,” she says, shaking the end of it so that the bells jingle merrily.

Miriam is not feeling merry--not after seeing Q so depressed--but she sticks her hand in and grabs a slip of paper before following Rumi back to their section.

She sits down at her chair, tea in one hand, and the folded paper in the other. She is just taking a sip when she opens the paper...and promptly spits her tea back into the cup.

“Wow, must be a bad one,” Rumi says from behind her, and then leans closer, “it’s not Michael, is it? He’s such an arse.”

When Miriam doesn’t say anything, just stares and stares and stares in horror, Rumi nods and makes a sound of sympathy.

“Well that’s confirmation if I’ve ever seen it...tough luck,” she says.

Miriam blinks and turns back round in her chair, looking down at the slip on her lap.

The paper reads:

_James Bond_

That can’t be right. It’s impossible. It has to be.

Right?

**00Q00Q00Q**

“What’s wrong, babe? You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” says Andrea, the moment Miriam walks through the door.

Andrea is standing in the doorway, probably a little anxious since Miriam is late by a half-hour after missing her usual train. She’s in her Doctor Who apron, which is white at the front with flour, as is the rest of her; her dark skin is ashy in the places where the flour has settled: cuticles and knuckles and the insides of her wrists. Miriam sniffs. She’s got curry on. The whole flat smells delicious and welcoming.

“It’s...it’s nothing, just this stupid work thing,” Miriam says, hanging up her coat, her purse, dropping the mail in the slot, before finally--finally--going to Andrea for a hug and kiss.

“It looks like more than a work thing, but I’ll let you eat first before I question you,” Andrea tells her, and boops her nose.

Miriam knows she’s probably got flour on her now, but she can’t be arsed to care.

It’s later, when they are curled up on the sofa beneath a flannel throw and three cats that Andrea turns to her.

“So what’s happened?”

“Nothing. Really. It’s stupid.”

“Nothing is ever stupid if it’s bothering you,” Andrea says, in a way that Miriam knows she means it just as much as when she says it to her primary school students.

“Okay, but don’t laugh?”

“Go on!”

“Okay, so we’re doing this Secret Santa thing at work and--why are you laughing?”

“You’re worried about a Secret Santa?” Andrea asks, and then dissolves right back into laughter again.

Miriam throws a pillow at her.

“Stop it! It’s really awful! I got this terrible person I have no idea what to gift them!”

Andrea sobers.

“Subscription to Mayfair?” she suggests, wiggling her eyebrows.

“Actually...he might like it…”

Andrea makes a disgusted face.

“Ugh, really? Do men really like that garbage?”

“No clue,” Miriam says. “I know absolutely nothing about men.”

“You big ol’ lesbian.”

That has Miriam laughing, and Andrea not long behind her.

“I’m sure you can just get him Generic Guy gifts and it’ll be fine,” Andrea says, when they’ve caught their breath. “Or a gift card. Nothing says you don’t know what to get someone like a gift card.”

“Ugh, but he’s one of those bespoke guys. Everything is tailor-made and elegant. Not sure he’s ever been in a peasant shop before.”

“Yikes. The dirty magazine subscription is sounding better and better.”

Miriam sighs.

“Maybe it’s a fluke...I just can’t imagine him even wanting to participate in this thing…”

“Talk to the organiser? Maybe they can help you sort it out?”

“Maybe…”

Andrea kisses her.

“Don’t worry about it. It’ll be fine. I’ll even go help you pick out the girlie mags if you’re too embarrassed.”

Miriam shoves her playfully.

“Keep that up and maybe Santa won’t visit this year!”

“Well,” Andrea says, her grin turning playful, fingers sliding up under Miriam’s pyjama top, “I’ve never claimed to be a good girl anyway.”

**00Q00Q00Q**

Miriam goes to Six the next day with the intention of chatting with Q about the Secret Santa business, but when she arrives at her usual time of seven in the morning, she finds that Q has hidden himself in his office, the lock on the door glowing red.

A redhead from the night shift sees her looking at his closed door.

“He spent the entire night trying to locate Double-Oh Seven,” explains Timothy, on his way out the door. “We forced him for a lie down round four this morning, but he could still be working for all we know…”

“Did you find him?”

Redheaded Timothy shakes his head.

“Thanks,” she says, and he nods before heading out the door.

She goes to her desk and starts up her workstation. There are things to do, but she can’t seem to concentrate. The little slip of paper with Bond’s name on it is in her desk tray, taunting her. No matter what she does, Miriam starts thinking about him: alive and annoying, dead and...well, it’s too depressing.

Later that morning, she finds R in the breakroom, making tea, half a biscuit in her mouth. Her hijab is red and fringed for the upcoming holiday, reminding Miriam of her existential dread at the little folded paper in her pocket.

“R…could I...ask you something?” Miriam asks.

“Sure,” she says, and there must be something in Miriam’s expression, because she immediately turns concerned, almost motherly: “Is everything alright?”

“Um, yes, well…” Miriam begins, “er, I was wondering about the Secret Santa…”

R shakes her head.

“If you took a name, you have to play. Those are the rules.”

“Of course, of course,” Miriam says, “but I was wondering...just how many people put in their names to this gift exchange exactly…?”

“Well,” R says, prepping her cup, “anyone who wanted to join could. Mostly it’s us here in TSS and R&D, but I know a few from Intentions threw in and a couple Admin staff at the last minute. Guess no one started one upstairs, so it’s just ours this year.”

“What about our field agents and Double-Ohs?”

R looks thoughtful.

“Q did say that he was going to encourage them to sign up. I think they felt left out last year…”

“Oh?”

“That’s right, you couldn’t make it to last year’s party… Andrea’s dad had surgery, yeah?”

“That’s right. Pacemaker.”

“How’s he doing?”

“A lot better. He retired to Calais with the new wife.”

“Fancy that.

“He’ll outlive us all,”

R laughs and pours some hot water into her cup

“Well, last year, most of our active agents were in the country, which no one expected...so no one thought to get any of them gifts. You’ve never seen a sadder sight. Q was handing out grenades at the end of the night and letting them go wild in the test range because he felt so guilty.”

Miriam herself feels a stab of guilt at the thought. She doesn’t know many of them well, but Agent Farrow had always been nice to her (always complimenting her cardigans) before she’d been rotated out to a field office in Turkey, and a few of the other agents had come out to lunch with them once or twice and been polite.

The Double-Ohs are all a little terrifying, and she does her best to not get in their way, only watching from afar when James Bond prowls through their branch on the regular. Alec Trevelyan does the same every now and then when he isn’t out of the country. Jack Morrison isn’t in often either, but he is the only Double-Oh she’s ever spoken to directly. It had been after he’d broken her coffee mug in the breakroom on accident while looking for biscuits (the Double-Ohs always went through their biscuits like it was their own pantry and never replaced them). He’d been very sweet in his apology to her and had gone to great lengths to find another orange cat mug to replace the one he’d destroyed.

The biscuits were another matter entirely.

So while she doesn’t know any of them intimately, she knows they are all decent people who do indecent things in the name of national security, and Miriam thinks that that at least deserves a present on Christmas. Perhaps what they receive at the Secret Santa will be their only present...

“That’s… really nice. I’m glad that they’re in this year,” Miriam says, because she _is_ glad that they are participating, though at the same she’s overwhelmed with dread knowing that Bond’s name isn’t a mistake…

Though she wonders if Bond actually did put his name in. He’s not the sort to play this kind of game, so it seems out of character. Unless… someone put his name in for him?

“I think they are too,” R says and then sighs, “if only they could stop buying things...”

“What do you mean?”

“They’ve never done this before so they don’t quite understand what a fifteen quid limit is...I’ve had to talk a few of them out of vacation homes and recreational vehicles. It’s actually kind of sweet…”

“Speaking of gifts…” Miriam begins, “let’s say I have a particularly difficult agent--”

“No names! It’s a secret!”

“Okay, but... I mean, what do you get a spy? They have everything, don’t they?”

R hums thoughtfully.

“Don’t think of them as a spy, just think of them as a person.”

“A person who has everything…?”

R laughs.

“I’m sure you’ll think of something. And if you’re really having a problem, ask Q. He’ll know just the thing for the agents.”

“Okay…” Miriam says, feeling defeated.

R smiles at her.

“Don’t worry about it. Just have fun. It’s not like you got someone impossible, like James Bond!”

Miriam laughs nervously, but R doesn’t seem to notice, and waves goodbye to her as she makes her way towards Q’s office.

“I’m so fucked,” Miriam says to the empty breakroom.

**00Q00Q00Q**

Bond comes back the following day, looking none the worse for wear, which is more than Miriam can say about Q. He looks like he’s been through the wringer: a few days’ worth of stubble on him, clothes wrinkled, and dark, dark bags under his eyes. He looks too tired to even give Bond the what for, but he manages, dressing Bond down in less than five minutes in front of the entire branch.

As always, Miriam and the rest of them try not to look like they are paying attention, but it’s hard not to watch Q destroy the reckless Double-Oh with his verbal acuity. It’s amazing how Bond’s cocksure grin turns contrite, his shoulders bowing a little as if sheepish by his own behaviour. And then Q points towards the door and his voice is very clear:

“Get out of my sight.”

And Bond does so.

Miriam doesn’t watch him go, instead, watching Q, who looks like he’s going to crumple right there at the front of the room from exhaustion and anger.

 _Oh_  she realises  _you really do love him, don’t you?_

**00Q00Q00Q**

When Miriam comes home that night, she finds Andrea in the kitchen making Christmas cookies. It smells like a home ought to: cinnamon and spice and tea and a bit of orange rinds. Andrea is going hard at some dough with her rolling pin when Miriam comes up behind her and presses her forehead into her shoulder.

“I have no idea what to do…”

“You’re not still thinking of this Secret Santa thing, are you?”

“Yes...I just...this is the worst.”

“There are so many worse things!” Andrea says cheerfully. “For instance, I had a boy puke into a girl’s hands today.”

“That is… so much worse...”

“Told you!” she laughs, “and don’t worry, it wasn’t contagious. He just ate too much candy.”

“That’s a relief,” Miriam sighs.

Andrea turns round in her arms, shuffles her glasses to the top of her head, and kisses her eyelids very softly. It’s so sweet that Miriam wants to cry.

“Babe, you’re really overthinking this, aren’t you…?”

“Yeah…”

“Here, have a cookie,” Andrea says, and pushes a gingerbread man into her mouth.

Miriam has to admit, it does make her feel better.

That, and a night of watching Christmas movies on telly, then bundling up soft and warm into their bed together, the cats nestled at their feet. But still, Miriam can’t sleep. She’s thinking about the sad way Q had watched Bond leave, sadder than the usual way, and wonders what it means.

“You’re thinking about the Secret Santa, aren’t you?”

Miriam knows it’s no use to pretend to be sleeping.

“No…?”

Andrea turns round to face her. It’s dark in their room, but Miriam can make out the curve of her cheek, the curl of her hair.

“I’ve never seen anyone so tortured over an office Secret Santa before…” Andrea teases.

“You don’t know him. This guy...he’s such an…”

“Arse?”

“Yes. No. Well, a bit of both. He’s… got a lot of baggage…”

“Baggage doesn’t give someone a free pass to be a dick.”

“He’s not really he’s just… really intense. Like, the most intense person you’ll ever meet. He comes into the room and I start sweating.”

“Maybe you should get him a chill pill?” Andrea suggests, and then laughs. “Or one for yourself?”

Miriam pokes her in her soft stomach playfully.

“I’m serious! What am I supposed to get for this guy? He has everything: nice clothes, nice car, nice everything!”

“Aha, but guys like that always want the one thing they don’t have.”

“Because...they’re men…?”

“No! Because it’s something money _can’t_ buy. Think about it. What does he _really_ want?”

Miriam stares up at the ceiling. She thinks about Bond, coming into Q-Branch, powerful and terrifying, raw energy and muscle and violence all contained beneath his sleek suit. He prowls like a large cat within a cage, ready to lash out at who comes to close. But someone does get close, the only person he allows, the only person who turns that huge lion into a domesticated kitten...

Miriam may have bad eyesight, but over the years, she has seen the way Bond looks at Q...and the way Q looks back when Bond turns away. There’s something unspoken there, in the way they look and then look away, as if they want but can’t ask. It breaks Miriam’s heart, just a little, to see how badly they want one another but won’t act on it.

It reminds her of all of those years of her life when, growing up, she had looked at girls at school--girls with long blonde hair, girls with wild curls, girls with freckles like her, girls with glasses, girls without, girls that were all leg, girls that were all brains--and had wanted to do things with them that she had been told girls only did with boys: she wanted to hold their hand in the hallways and pass them love notes in class and kiss them outside of the gymnasium after school. But fear had always held her back.

And she sees that same fear in them.

It’s a shame, really, because they seem to want each other so desperately, even when they’re angry and fighting, Q telling Bond to _get out of his sight_ , but looking so distraught after. It’s almost as if they need one another to be complete, because neither of them ever light up unless around the other. Bond always looking so angry and sullen, Q so aloof and cold, until the moment they are in the same room. There, they soften, just a bit, around the eyes and mouth, and their body language becomes loose and comfortable, the two of them moving round  
one another like planets in orbit: smooth and constant, attraction undeniable.

Still, they never act on it.

Miriam had always thought they had their reasons, but had never thought too hard on it. After all, Q is her boss. Bond is Double-Oh Seven and can kill her seven ways with a pencil if he even caught wind of her thinking about it. So she never did.

Until now.

“My boss.”

“Whoa? What?”

“It’s not really a secret...I mean, they’ve been dancing around it for over a year now. Maybe longer…”

“Wait wait wait. Your boss? The cute one with the glasses? The one at the pub night with the awful jumper, right?”

“The same.”

“Knew it,” Andrea breathes

“Knew what?”

“My gaydar was still working.”

Miriam pokes her in the stomach again, and Andrea giggles.

“What? I can spot them a mile away!

“No you can’t!”

“I totally can! I spotted you, didn’t I?”

That makes Miriam laugh, because it’s true. Andrea kisses her on the cheek, and then her mouth, and then other places that make Miriam’s toes curl.

“Feel a little better?”

“Yes, but I still have to think of something… and under fifteen quid…”

Andrea hits her with a pillow, scaring the cats from the room.

“Oh my god were you thinking about your boss and this guy while we were having sex?”

“Ew, no, of course not!” Miriam says.

Andrea laughs.

“Look, you said they both are into each other, right?”

“Well, yeah. I mean, I think everyone knows...everyone but them, anyway…”

“Well, there you go. That’s the gift. Hook them up. Best gift anyone could give.”

“Oh god, it’s like that horrible American movie we watched the other night…”

“You’re Christmas Cupid!”

They dissolve into laughter, recalling the ridiculous film about the ghost that sets up the couple that is perfect for each other and doesn’t realise it. But Andrea does have a good point. Maybe helping them realise their feelings would be the best Christmas gift she could offer.

“I dunno if it’ll work. I’m not a very good matchmaker…”

“It’s not even about matchmaking. They’re both into each other but too stupid to realise it, right?”

“Yeah…”

“All you’re doing is giving them a nudge in the right direction,” Andrea assures her, as she kisses Miriam goodnight. “Trust me. It’ll work out just fine.”

**00Q00Q00Q**

Miriam is sold on the idea, but she decides she’s going to talk to Q about it. Or at least, try to get a read on the situation before she jumps headfirst into it. The last thing she wants to do is try to set the two of them up if she’s misread the situation, because the embarrassment and violation would be too much for either of them to bear.

He isn’t in that morning, but appears sometime in the afternoon looking a little better than the previous day. It’s obvious that he’s gone home and showered, shaved, changed his clothes, but there’s something very moody about him that tells Miriam it’s not a good time. Anxiously, she waits for the end of the day, making foolish mistakes in her work that force her to have to go back one, two, three times to correct. By the time she has, it’s well past five in the evening.

Everyone has already filed out for the day, but Miriam lingers behind, waiting for that moment in between day and night shift when it’s relatively quiet before she goes looking for her boss. Miriam finds Q in the R&D lab, where he usually is at the end of the day if there are no pressing issues in TSS. It’s where he started out, she knows: creating and testing the tech for MI6’s active agents.

He’s there tonight, perched on the edge of a stool, his head bowed over something so small that he has dual magnifying glasses over it.

Miriam doesn’t want to disturb him, seeing him so focused, but he seems to know that she’s there, because, without looking up, he says:

“Miriam? Everything alright?”

“Y-Yes, sorry to bother you...”

“You’re not bothering me. Hold on just a second while I finish this…”

The door behind her opens, and then there’s footsteps, the crinkle of a plastic bag, and when Miriam turns, she’s face-to-face with Bond. He’s intimidating up close, even more so when his gaze meets hers. The blue of his eyes is so intense it’s almost predatory. She suddenly feels like a deer in lamplights, unable to run, just stand there in his path, despite the danger that he exudes.

“This one’s cute,” Bond says, but he doesn’t look her up and down like he might a mark, and Miriam doesn’t know if she’s relieved or offended.

“Don’t disrespect my staff, Double-Oh Seven. I’ll cut your tongue out,” Q says from his workbench.

His voice isn’t raised, but the threat is there all the same. Bond looks properly cowed by it, which surprises Miriam, because if there’s one thing she’s never expected to see twice, it’s a contrite Double-Oh Seven.

“My apologies,” Bond says, and then to Miriam, with true sincerity, “I meant no offence.”

“None taken,” Miriam manages to say.

“What are you doing here, Bond? I thought I told you I didn’t want to see your face in my branch again?”

Q’s voice is stiff and angry, his motions harsh and jerky with his small tools on his even smaller project.

Bond holds up the bag in lieu of reply. Miriam is so close that she can feel the heat coming off it, smell the spices of the Indian takeaway. But Q is still looking down at his project, so Bond says:

“Brought you dinner.”

It seems as if Q might dismiss him anyway, but his expression is somewhat thoughtful.

“I suppose you are some use to me after all. Bring it here, then,” Q says.

Bond goes to the workbench obediently and begins unpacking the bag. There are several containers, much more than for one person. Miriam sees Q’s eyes quickly move from his project to the boxes, then back to his work.

“Did you order the entire restaurant?”

“I ordered enough for two.”

“Oh, so you’re staying?”

“That’s the trade off for the dinner.”

Q hums thoughtfully again, as if he’s debating on accepting or denying Bond’s offer. Miriam watches Bond’s expression go from smug to anxious. But something passes between them, something unspoken, and Q’s voice comes softer now:

“I suppose that’s fine. So long as there are dosas.”

The relief that enters Bond’s smile makes him look ten years younger. He nudges a box towards Q’s elbow. A peace offering.

“Double order just for you. Since you always eat mine.”

“I do not,” Q says, but he goes red with a telling blush and Miriam knows that he’s lying.

It makes her wonder just how often they do this together. How many times could Bond have gone out to pick up men and women of his choosing, but had instead come to the depths of MI6 to make sure Q had a decent meal and some company for the evening?

“You do too. It’s probably because you never eat. Does he ever eat?” Bond asks, and the question is directed at Miriam.

“Sometimes...he forgets…”

Q puts down his tools and looks up from his magnifying glasses.

“Honestly, you both sound like my mum.”

“You’re too skinny. Eat your dosas,” Bond says, opening the box to waft the scent at Q.

“Just a minute,” Q says, putting his tools down. “Miriam was here first.”

He gets up from his stool and comes round the other side of the bench to Miriam.

“Don’t touch anything,” Q says harshly to Bond, over his shoulder, and then, to Miriam, softer: “I’m sorry for making you wait. Did you want to talk…?”

Q gestures in the direction of TSS, away from Bond’s prying ears. Miriam almost accepts, but she sees the way that Bond is trying hard not to look at them as he arranges their dinner on the workbench. She feels suddenly guilty, as if she’s ruined a date, and hurriedly shakes her head.

“I’m sorry, it’s nothing important.”

“Are you sure…?”

“I think I figured it out, actually…”

“Really?”

Miriam looks at him, at that youthfulness coming back to him after so many days of that tired graveness. It tells her everything she needs to know.

“Yeah. Funny thing. Just came to me.”

“Alright...if you need anything, just let me know?”

“I will. Thank you,” she says, and then, “good night.”

“Good night.”

Miriam heads for the exit, adjusting the strap of her bag as she goes. Just before she leaves, she glances back, hand on the crossbar, and sees the two of them at the workbench, leaning over their takeaway, their knees so close they are almost touching. The stiffness in Q has gone away entirely, his body curved towards Bond and the soft words coming from his smiling mouth. Seeing them like this, she knows the answer to her question without ever having asked.

Now, it’s time to plan.

**00Q00Q00Q**

The night of the holiday party comes round faster than Miriam anticipated.

Everyone’s been abuzz with excitement all day, so much that Miriam doubts any work has gotten done. That being said, the department is bursting with holiday decorations: more garlands than before and hundreds of fairy lights and tables already bowing under the weight of food and drink.

Next to the food, there is another table piled high with presents: some wrapped, some bagged, all of various shapes and sizes. People had been placing them there all day, doing the discrete walk-by as if they didn’t want anyone to see them drop of a particular gift. In the mess of it all is Miriam’s gift: a narrow little box that she’s lost track of now that there are so many parcels on the table.

The party doesn’t officially start until seven, but the day shift starts eating round six, and the night shift, who had just stumbled in, joins as well. Everyone’s sort of making the rounds to say hello to one another, trading their own small gifts between friends, lounging about in their swivel chairs in front of their hibernating computers. No one is really planning on working much for the next few hours, and the world is stable enough to allow it, it seems.

Close to the start, more people file in that are not part of the branch. Miriam recognises some of them from upstairs, others she has never seen before. Among those that she does know is Eve Moneypenny, looking resplendent as always, and, of course, the Chief of Staff, Bill Tanner, who is wearing a Christmas jumper that lights up with the press of a button.

The agents filter in after them, most of whom Miriam knows by sight alone: the blonde woman who always has her hair pulled back in a tight ponytail, the older man with the cut through his lip, the fresh-faced agent who she sometimes bumps into in the canteen, among others that she has worked with over the past year or so. They stand at the edge of the room awkwardly, talking amongst each other; the minions do the same. It’s sort of like being in secondary school again, but instead of being separated into boys and girls they are separated by spies and boffins.

James Bond is the last to arrive, at seven on the dot. He looks devastating in his black suit and red tie, earning all sorts of stares and whispers. It seems to please him, but there’s something else in his expression, just below the surface. If she didn’t know better, Miriam would call it nervousness.

“Alright, everyone,” R says loudly, calling everyone’s attention to her.

She’s festive in red and gold. To her left, Q is unobtrusive, but in apparently good humour if his reindeer jumper is anything to go by.

“We’re going to start the gift exchange now. If you’ve participated, you’ll find your name on a gift on the table over there. We’ll have everyone get their gift, then go round the room and have you open them one by one. Your Secret Santa can reveal themselves or stay anonymous, it’s completely up to them. Okay, go on!”

There’s a shuffle as everyone goes to the table, some of the ones at the front passing gifts along to those behind them. Asha hands Miriam her gift: something soft beneath blue snowflake wrapping paper.

“Alright, when everyone’s in place, let’s go round the room,” R said over the din, and everyone quieted.

Miriam looks round, unable to help the smile that comes to her face as the agents across the room observe their presents. They are turning them over in their hands, feeling along the edges, shaking, squeezing, doing all sorts of tactile things to figure out what they are. It’s like watching children the days leading up to Christmas, trying to determine if they got what was on their wish lists.

R must notice too, but she doesn’t put them out of their misery, instead, starting on the boffins’ side and moving down and round the circle of the room.

Most of the gifts are good--tea mugs, pop figures, new headphones--though some of them are better than others--R gives a very stern look to the agents over in the corner when Timothy unwraps a new iPod--and Miriam herself gets a very useful gift. They are fingerless gloves that plug into the USB port of her computer to keep her warm, a godsend in the winter when the Branch is frigid.

The circle comes round to the front of the room, where Q and R are watching like pleased parents. Q does not have a gift in his hand--just as Eve and Tanner don’t either, so Miriam supposes management level sat this one out--but R does: a pretty gold bag with shimmery tissue paper.

“It’s from me,” Bond says loudly and proudly.

R looks terrified for a moment--as does everyone else in the room--as she peels back the tissue paper with some trepidation. It’s warranted, of course, knowing what kind of dangerous things Bond constitutes as fun...what would he think would make a good gift?

“There had better not be anything dangerous in here,” R threatens him, as she reaches into the bag and removes...

“Is that…” someone begins.

“A whip…?” R finishes.

She is holding a whip the size of her own body, right in the center, so both ends look limp and snake-like in her hold.

“I thought you could use it to whip your team into shape,” Bond says.

The agents all laugh, as do some of the boffins, albeit a bit nervously.

“Do I even want to know where this came from?” R asks.

“I have a feeling I know, and you don’t want to,” Q tells her.

R drops the whip back into the bag as if it had bitten her, and Bond looks so damned pleased with himself that it’s a miracle he hasn’t hurt himself

They move on to the next round of gifts, these much more ordinary, until the next person in line is Bond.

He undoes the little ribbon round the box and Miriam--as well as everyone else--does their best to pretend as if they aren’t watching with bated breath to see what it is. Everyone round the room is probably wondering who the poor sod was that pulled Bond’s name, and Miriam feels her pits go damp, hoping that no one knows it was her.

It’s a small parcel, which Bond opens with uncharacteristic care. It’s impossible to see what is inside at the angle Bond is holding it and everyone in the room is so curious that Miriam is surprised there’s no chatter, only silence as everyone waits for Bond to show the entire room. But he doesn’t, and no expression crosses his face as he closes the lid and slips the box into the inner pocket of his jacket.

“Well?” Q asks, and everyone looks at him, their eyes wide.

Miriam knows what they’re all thinking, that surely Q had been Bond’s Secret Santa, and Miriam trembles in relief at not having to out herself.

“It’s the best gift anyone could have ever given me,” Bond says.

The room erupts in murmurs, no words discernable, though everyone’s expression is eager and conspiratorial.

It’s during this deluge of sound that Bond looks right at her. His eyes are piercing blue, like ice, and she feels a cold sweat break out under the collar of her jumper. But then they warm--the colour of the sea as it had been at Dorset last summer when she and Andrea had gone on holiday--and he smiles, just so, and _oh_ Miriam suddenly understands just why Q had fallen for him.

James Bond can look so unbelievably handsome when he smiles.

After the rest of the gifts are handed out and thanks are given to the brave Secret Santas who revealed themselves alongside the anonymous gift-givers, the party truly begins: food, beverages, even a bit of music. The head of MI6--Gareth Mallory--makes an appearance and says some words. They toast, they dance, they eat. It’s actually a pretty bang-on time.

Of course, the topic of conversation is all abuzz about what Bond had gotten and why he had been so secretive about it. Miriam speculates with the rest of them, listening to theories, laughing at the impossible things people have come up with. They have no idea that it had been something of no cost, but of great value:

A simple sprig of mistletoe and a note that read _if you ask, he’ll say yes_.

She can only hope that Bond will understand and act on it.

Speaking of Bond, Miriam spots him moving along the wall out of the corner of her eye. There are two plastic flutes of cider in his hands. She tracks him as he moves past the party-goers like a shadow, until he’s beside Q, to whom he hands one of the glasses. They tip them together, and then drink, and then have a small conversation that looks like most of their normal exchanges.

Bond’s eyes flick to hers, just for a half a second, and Miriam feels her heart swell a bit, because James Bond looks _nervous_ of all things. She watches as he gracelessly makes a motion with his hand, in the general direction of Q’s office. Q looks confused, but follows, and the door shuts, the lock on the outside of the door going from green to red.

She watches the door for five, maybe ten minutes. No one comes out, not even fifteen minutes later when she’s on her third helping of sweets, and Miriam knows what that means. Pulling out her mobile, she texts Andrea.

_Mission success_

Two minutes later, a reply filled with emoji hearts:

_< 3 <3 <3 that’s my favourite secret agent lady <3 <3 <3_

Miriam smiles and takes a seat at her desk. No one has noticed that Q and Bond have gone missing, and it’s likely that no one will by the end of the night. She wonders, idly, how it happened: if Bond had been nervous when holding up the mistletoe, when asking for a kiss, if Q had been shy or passionate in his response.

She wonders if it had been anything like when she and Andrea had first kissed, on the rooftop of a mutual friend’s home, lit with fairy lights. It had been a cold New Year’s Eve, but they were all up there together: drinking, listening to someone play the guitar, and Andrea had been talking to her about the economics of poverty and Miriam had fallen in love with her right there. She’d asked, perhaps, a bit coy, if she liked girls and when Andrea said yes, Miriam had told her she wanted to kiss her. So they did, on a cold London night shot through with gold, and Andrea had tasted like oranges and there had been literal fireworks and Miriam had never been so happy.

So she hopes that, whatever happens, even if just for a moment, that they are happy.

That will be the best gift of all.

**00Q00Q00Q**

The day after Christmas, Miriam returns to Six. She is in good spirits, what with not having to visit with her parents--on vacation for Christmas in South America--and no longer having to hide the trip to Spain from Andrea any longer. It had been the best feeling in the world to hand the small little ornament to her on Christmas morning, to see her confused face light up with realisation that they were going on holiday together during Andrea’s half term break in February. It had been an even better feeling to be thanked by a grateful Andrea in her new lingerie that she had chosen specifically for Miriam’s particular tastes.

Cheeks burning at the memory, Miriam tugs at her muffler as she makes her way past security and to the lifts that will take her downstairs. The lift arrives just as Q does. He looks good. Relaxed, as if he’d actually not worked over the two day holiday. He smiles when he sees her and holds his arm out to let her into the lift first.

“Miriam, how was your Christmas?”

“Quiet,” she says, even if it’s not entirely the truth...according to the neighbours. “Just how I like it. Yours?

“The same,” Q answered, “I even caught the Doctor Who Christmas Special this year without having to put it on the DVR.”

“A true Christmas miracle,” Miriam says.

Q laughs and undoes his muffler, then unzips the front of his coat. That’s when Miriam sees it: a very impressive purpling bruise just behind Q’s ear. If he hadn’t brushed his hair out of the way with his muffler, she might have missed it.

Miriam grins.

“Perhaps not the only miracle,” Miriam says, and Q blinks at her in confusion. “I hope Bond had a Happy Christmas with you.”

Q goes very, very red.

“W-What? How did you--”

Miriam taps at the place just behind her ear, and Q’s hand immediately goes to his neck.

“That bastard--”

“So it _was_ happy, then?”

Q struggles for words, but then the mortification dissipates as another expression comes to his face.

“It... was you?”

Miriam laughs.

“Happy Christmas, Q.”

Although still obviously embarrassed, Q smiles, looking young and radiant as he ought to.

“Happy Christmas, Miriam.”

**00Q00Q00Q**

The beaches in the south of Spain are so beautiful that Miriam doesn’t think she ever wants to go home to London’s slushy streets and endlessly grey days.

She and Andrea spend their days in leisure: on the beach, in the pool, in the spa, or exploring the little seaside town, managing to somehow get by in their broken Spanish. They spend their evenings in similar leisure, though of the more private sort. Miriam is a little sore, but she’s not about to complain, not when she has Andrea all to herself for a week and with no pressing obligations.

It is their fourth day there and they have just returned to the hotel room after a long swim in the Mediterranean, when they find a gift in their room. It is a bottle of champagne seated in a bucket of ice.

“You’ve already spoiled me!” Andrea says, and her eyes go wide at the name on the front of the bottle. “Babe, we can’t possibly afford this…?”

“I didn’t...order champagne…” Miriam says, and feels a little nervous.

That’s when she spies the note on the bureau next to the bucket. When Miriam opens it, there’s a single line of text:

_Forever in your debt. -J.B._

“Well? What’s it about?” Andrea asks.

Miriam closes the note and smiles.

“Mistletoe.”

Andrea grins and holds up two empty flutes.

“I can drink to that.”

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Christmas to all!


End file.
